


strawberry swing

by fondleeds



Category: One Direction
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nostalgia, The world is ending, They grow up together, short and sweet and sad, yeah so uhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 15:28:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12257088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fondleeds/pseuds/fondleeds
Summary: louis’ mouth tastes like nectarines and summer and his fingers are sticky and grimy with dirt, mulch and tiny wood chips clung to the static of his shirt, in his hair, and above him the swing is floating lazily back and forth.today they’re nine and soon they’ll be ten and he’s got paint on his cheeks and harry is humming nonsense under his breath and painting tiny m birds on his palm. today they’re at the park and things are simple in the way that only children know.





	strawberry swing

**Author's Note:**

> uhh hey so i wrote this on the train today????? and it has no capitalisation because i wrote it on my notes which i never do???? buT change is good (right??) and i wanted to post something for u guys bc u constantly send me such lovely and supportive messages,,,and i PROMISE i'm working on like,,,actual fic with fleshed out plot and punctuation skdlfjksl but for now here's this bc i've been feeling Sad over the last few days and then i listened to strawberry swing by frank and,,,,i cried and had to write this
> 
> would 11/10 recommend listening to it while reading for the full crying effect
> 
> hope u all enjoy this little fic ♡

when louis wakes he can see the dust.

it’s a silent and sleepy morning and everything is tinged in mildew greens and mouldy blues, and when he blinks awake the slit in the curtain is a piercing white portal to another yesterday.

his eyes are heavy and the skin around his fingers is wrinkling and soft, but when he runs them over the sheets absently it feels like there could still be traces of warmth there.

each blink is a knock against the chasm that’s carved itself in his chest, and when he finally sits up, what’s left of his moulded bones creaking and aching and collapsing with the pressure of holding up his crumbling body, the act of pulling himself to the window feels like pulling himself from death.

he draws back the curtain and lets the grey sunlight in.

-

the sky is magenta and the world is golden glazed.

it’s noon time and it’s nap time but things are still and all around them is quiet, the world’s breath held in her chest like she knows, like she’s watching them with maudlin and watery eyes.

louis’ mouth tastes like nectarines and summer and his fingers are sticky and grimy with dirt, mulch and tiny wood chips clung to the static of his shirt, in his hair, and above him the swing is floating lazily back and forth.

today they’re nine and soon they’ll be ten and he’s got paint on his cheeks and harry is humming nonsense under his breath and painting tiny m birds on his palm. today they’re at the park and things are simple in the way that only children know.

they’ve painted the undersides of the swings because there’s nobody else here but them and soon autumn will wrap them in auburn-spun leaves, but for now they still have these little dried flakes of colour to remind them.

today they’re almost dozing as the sun sets and today is the only day of their little lives so far that they ever start to think about things to come. the world nudges them together and whispers an unheard apology.

“what if we could fly,” harry says. his cheeks are sunburnt and his nose is freckled and he holds out his painted palm. “where would you go?”

“i’d go to space,” louis says.

“you can’t breathe in space,” harry says, and when he smiles his eyes are watery because the sun is slanting through the trees now, and that magenta has turned lavender and translucent.

“i’d wear a helmet, dumby,” louis nudges harry’s small shin with his small foot, “and i’d get dust from the moon and put it in a jar.”

“the moon is made of cheese,” harry says, straight-faced for what seems only a split second before his lips wobble and he’s laughing. his hair is brown but in this golden moment it looks shiny and blonde.

louis shoves his shoulder, gently, and wood-chips rustle and stick into his skin, gently. “fine. where would you go?”

harry rolls onto his back, pushes his swing with thin, dirty fingers for a few moments. he’s painted strawberries, pink and ruby with little green stalks, tiny black dots. “space, too. even if i couldn’t breathe i think i’d like to see earth from way up there.”

“well, that’s just it, then,” louis says. “we’ll go to space.”

“okay,” harry says, grinning that wide and dopey way he does when they’re both being ridiculous, the way he has done for every summer that louis has known him.

they pack up their paints and the mulch around them is dotted in pastels and finally, the pale sky releases it’s breath and falls into navy and the little bugs are friendly and buzz around their little ears.

-

nine is pineapple juice and froot loops and skin burning on plastic slides. nine is summers spent in inflatable pools and bouncy castles, surrounded by balloons and streamers and platters of strawberries and blueberries, m birds and blue crayon on canvas paper, pulling black cable ties from cardboard boxes, plastic toys and hula hoops and pink cd players.

nine is best friend journals and stickers and dewy autumn cheeks, star gazing past clouds and building telescopes from toilet rolls and cellophane, the world tinged bright blue and bottle green, nighttime curling their eyelids gently shut at eight-thirty, sleep overs on the weekends on the living room floor with buttery popcorn and candy bracelets and swirling tummies.

nine is young and bright and friend-love.

-

the sky is bronze and the world is honey-sticky and sweating.

it’s dusk and the dunes hold low whistles in their prickly reeds. the sand is damp both from a tide pulled back into the swell, and from the swollen heat of the day’s sun.

the water is dark and white light skims and shimmers atop it, and behind them the little shack is swaying on it’s foundations, fly wire thunking gentle with the bugs that try to wiggle between the small gaps to get inside, where the air is cooler and the juice from summer fruit is dried and sticky and dotting the bench.

today they’re eleven and soon they’ll be twelve and he’s got sand stuck grainy and too-hot between his toes and his fingers and harry’s head is on his lap. today they’re at the beach and they will be for the next week.

harry nudges his nose against louis’ belly. he’s sunburnt along the bridge of his nose and under his eyes, and the freckles that smudge those spots are brown sugar specks. half his face is toned in that gooey honey light, the other smudged in the warm shadow louis’ body casts over him.

“i love this,” harry says, eyes closed with his half frosted lashes.

“love what?” louis says.

“this,” harry says.

the waves spit foamy pearls onto the golden sand below, but up here the reeds lap against their legs and shield them from the water. here, the sand is grainy and gentle and hasn’t been touched by the water, and louis runs his fingers through it and watches harry’s hair shift in the breeze.

today things will never be as they are again.

“me, too,” louis says. he doesn’t know what the _this_ is, just that today he holds it precious.

-

the week is ice cream and sunburnt knees and sheets covered in scratchy sand, butterflies caught in golden spiderwebs, reeds rustling and ocean hushing, board games and wet candlelight, bright blue days and navy blue nights, pinks and purples in between, harry’s eyes pale and summer-shiny, his freckles and his cold toes and his laughter mixing with louis’ when they spiral through waves and end up on the beach, washed up and giggling on their backs with their noses full of foam.

the week is what eleven feels like.

-

the sky is white and the world is a little crystal in a snow-globe.

it’s morning and it’s a slow, watery blink. it’s the snowstorm outside kissing wet and icy on the windows and fogging up the glass. their toes are little blue pinpricks and they’re curled up under the blankets together.

winter has only just tucked it’s chilled fingers under their doors, but the sleet is thick and heavy and demands attention. louis doesn’t want to lift his head from under the sheets.

today they’re twelve and soon they’ll be thirteen and harry is a furnace burning hot and sleepy against louis’ side. today they’re hiding for the first time and the winter time has angry, curled fists.

the fire is crackling somewhere close, little firework pops of ash and red sparks. louis feels his chest burst in time with them, and when harry places a palm over his back and curls closer, winter melts away.

“it’s too cold,” harry says, even though sweat is glistening his forehead. he smells sweet, smells like icing sugar and spun candy and pine needles, like christmas.

“it’s winter,” louis says. harry kicks his shin.

“shut up,” he mumbles, and louis closes his eyes and smiles, lets harry nuzzle closer and pull the blankets entirely over their heads.

when louis opens his eyes again, the light comes through the sheet in soft yellows and browns, and harry is already watching him, all hazel eyed and doe-like, dusty rose. their hands are resting together, and he nudges his knuckles gently with louis’ and smiles.

the house creaks, wind and snow shaking it with it’s cruel hands.

“promise we’ll always have this,” harry says into the sheets.

“have what?” louis says.

“this,” harry says. he brushes their fingers together again, slips his thumb under and against louis’ palm.

today is a fluttering heartbeat and the world whispers a silent, unheard _i’m sorry._

“promise,” louis says. he links their pinkies together gently.

-

twelve is a constant winter full of warmth. louis’ cheeks are prickled pink and his fingers are fuzzy and full of stars, and harry is an orange glow in dusty blue rooms, warm palms and cold fingertips, book spines cracking, noses pressed into yellowed pages, warm milk and fluffy socks, wool blankets and white sheets and toes tucked into calves, chins on shoulders, fingers brushing.

twelve is innocent and held precious and close.

-

the sky is dark and cracked with yellow and the world is breathing heavy and wet.

it’s night and the window is cracked because his room is a hotbox and it’s gotten hard to tell whether the air outside is warmer or cooler. everything feels sticky with a condensation that isn’t really there.

harry is eating melon on louis’ bed, juice leaving tiny dot-to-dot’s along the sheets, hair grown out and in his eyes, the baby fat on his face making him all moony and soft and louis watches him quietly while the sun kisses his neck uninvited.

today they’re thirteen and soon they’ll be fourteen and things have begun to feel impossibly huge. today ticks over into tomorrow and somehow the sky is still fuzzed with a light that isn’t suppose to be there.

“haz,” louis says.

“mm?” harry says. he’s scraping his teeth along the melon skin until all that’s left is that gummy white.

“the sun is already here,” louis says, pointing out the open window. a little bug crawls through the gap and buzzes onto his thigh.

“where?” harry says, coming closer, a juice-sticky hand on louis’ bare shoulder.

“there,” louis points out to the white horizon.

“huh,” harry says, then smiles. “it’s happy to see us, is all.”

“maybe,” louis says. he wipes at his under eyes. they’re sticky with sweat and he feels swollen.

harry’s hand slides up to his neck, and he knocks their hips together when he squeezes onto the window seat, squished so that their knees clack, legs overlapping.

“do you want some melon?” harry asks. he’s all shadow and sticky lips.

“no thanks,” louis says. he looks out the window again, to where the moon is a pale husk, to the strip of yellow.

“lou,” harry says softly, and his fingers brush louis’ ankle. louis looks at him, at the way he’s got his lips bitten between his teeth. “it’s fine. we’re probably dreaming it.”

“dreaming it, huh?” louis huffs a laugh, and harry bites down on his smile, all moony eyed and bright.

“yeah,” he says, then, in whimsy sing-song, “it’s all a dream.”

louis rolls his eyes and shoves him. harry is giggling into his neck now, and he pulls the curtains shut, pulls on louis’ hands until they fall into bed, a mess of sheets and the plate of melon and paper. it’s three in the morning when the sun rises full, yellow and sharp and splitting through the curtain like a diamond. harry has his head on louis’ stomach, pulling at a loose thread on his shorts.

today is here too early, tomorrow already chasing it’s heels.

“just a dream,” harry murmurs.

-

thirteen is sporadic flares and burning hot light, winter days blisteringly cold only to melt away to nothing, the spots where the river was frozen over turned to shiny slush. thirteen is icy poles and slippery sunscreen, frozen juice and playing playstation with the curtains drawn until their eyes are red-rimmed, the air hot and stuffy, wet towels on their shoulders and ice cubes running chilled trails along their tummies.

thirteen is harry spilling flour on the kitchen floor, sugar cookies and strawberry cheesecake and lemon pancakes, buttery yellow light and buttery crumbs, flowers on the table, flowers in the garden, flowers in their hair when the wild daisies start to grow along the edge of the river, paisley blue and lolly pink.

thirteen is baby love and an unknown yearning for things that haven’t happened yet.

-

the sky is red and the world has hazy, soft eyes.

sunset is a gold-brown disk, a semi-circle glow floating out on the dark water, tinting everything around it in a fuzzy orange. the sky, though, it’s russet and wrinkled with black shadow, fire and smoke and heat, summer’s last breath held with anticipation in her ballooning chest.

today they’re fifteen and soon they’ll be sixteen and the little beach house is trembling gently under their weight. today they’re drunk together for the first time on stolen, sticky sambuca, and their lips are slick and their eyes are bright and the candle on the table has melted away into a gooey puddle.

“lou,” harry whispers, rasps, because they’ve been giggling so long that their throats are dry and clicking with it. “lou, i’m so happy.”

he looks happy. he looks so gorgeously happy, cheeks ruby flushed and sticky because he’s sunburnt again and his freckles are darker than they’ve ever been, and louis’ fingers shake around the bottle in his fingers when he looks at him, because a happy harry is all he ever wants, all he ever has wanted, since possibly forever.

he thinks of fourteen, of tears and hiding under their blankets after the flares got bad, after the dust storms in spring and the hayfever that’d stung harry’s eyes so badly he couldn’t go outside, when he’d cried so much that they became constantly puffy and swollen and they weren’t allowed to watch the tv anymore, harry’s snotty nose leaving trails on his shirt, harry’s clammy fingers holding on tight to the sun-kissed bones of his wrist, harry whispering _i’m scared_ for the first time, buried beneath the blankets at four a.m, the sun rising.

this scarlet light bathes them so gentle, bathes harry in this glow. louis’ cheeks are warm and their skin is marked with little red indents from the slats of their broken chairs. there are bugs dancing around their heads and the waves are crimson lullabies.

“me, too,” louis whispers back, hands over the slippery bottle because they’ve missed their lips too many times, spat and spluttered and laughed. “my heart is gonna burst out of my chest.”

“that’s what mine feels like,” harry scoots closer, chair scraping as he reaches for louis’ fingers. the bottle of sambuca gets clumsily lowered to the floor, teetering before it rolls onto it’s side with a heavy _clunk_. louis is too distracted by harry’s hands and harry’s face, _harry-harry-harry_. “feel, lou. it’s gonna burst.”

harry is gentle when he takes louis’ hand, when he presses louis’ palm over his chest and looks up at him earnest and hazy. and. louis’ breath catches a little, because here harry is so close and brimming with summer, and he can feel his warmth beneath his hand, can feel the steady and sure _thump-thump-thump_ of his heartbeat, alive and quick and truly bursting.

“feel mine, too,” louis says, and harry is already moving. their palms are pressed against their hearts, elbows on each other’s knees, half their faces burnt in cherry, the other shadowed in night. harry’s palm feels like three a.m sunlight, but the only difference is it feels like it’s supposed to be there.

“we’re both gonna explode,” harry laughs, and he dips his head as he giggles, shoulders all loose and lanky and soft. the wispy hairs of his fringe tickle louis’ forehead, and when he looks back up, their noses brush together.

“harry,” louis says, because he feels like he could cry, feels like he could just about die at the swelling feeling that’s crawling up his throat, already gone misty-eyed because he’s just a boy and he’s drunk and harry is so, so bright.

their lips don’t fold so much as fumble, and it’s wet and open and a little sticky. harry’s fingers curl over louis’ heart, and the tiny intake of breath he makes has louis gone boneless, has his eyes slipping shut because things are too gentle for him to watch. it’s light and fleeting and when they pull away, noses still sliding, harry has wet, wide eyes and even under the fire of sunset and his burnt cheeks louis can see the brilliant flush shading his skin.

“oh,” he breathes, sweet and short, lips still wet.

“i-,” louis stutters a breath, tears pooling, a heady, bowling ball weight settling in his stomach. “i didn’t mean to-“

harry dips forward again, just a gentle, innocent peck on the corner of louis’ mouth to cut him off. they stare at each other, hands shaking and blood buzzing. louis can’t stop thinking about the way harry’s mouth had tasted like liquorice and alcohol and sugar and homey warmth.

“you’re my best friend, lou,” harry whispers, kisses him that same gentle way again, then again, then again, firmer, wetter, until louis kisses back. it’s hesitant and shy and the sun is nearly gone. louis could live in this very moment for a thousand todays, for an infinite number of yesterdays, for all the days to come.

today feels like forever.

“you mean everything to me,” louis exhales the words, and harry is there to catch them.

-

fifteen is hand-holding and vibrant cheeks, honey porridge and paper planes and spring-time spent indoors, keats and wattle trees and peach iced tea, crinkled polaroids and sharpie pens, shy mornings and shier noons, quiet dusks and quieter dawns, baby love blooming soft and steady.

fifteen is winter melting away, dust-storms in summer, dust-storms in autumn, dust clogging everything for months at a time while the sun shines down and lights it all up in sparkly white and gold, frosts windows and car windshields in unbearable heat. fifteen is nervous stomachs and the television unplugged from the wall and the radio in the draw away from curious eyes and hands. fifteen is waking up sweating on the first day of winter, smiling at each other beneath the sheets.

fifteen is an oblivious, giddy bubble.

-

the sky is bright blue and the world is choking on heat and dust.

smoke is rising miles away but things still smell burnt and stepping outside feels like swallowing sand. they’re watching firetrucks flash from the window, listening to the heavy _whoomph_ of helicopter blades floating.

today they’re sixteen and soon they’ll be seventeen and neither of them know when things started to fall apart the way they are now. today their mouths are ruby red from nervous kisses and nervous teeth and harry’s bones are thin and frail, freckles flared up on his cheeks and his nose. today marks the fourth week of winter and it hasn’t rained in five months.

“i don’t want to die,” harry says into the hot blanket of silence.

louis looks to him immediately, and in the balking second it takes for him to reply, his heart drips like cold honey down his spine to his toes and back into the rattling basket of his achy ribs.

“you won’t,” louis says, slightly shaky because hearing harry say anything like that makes him feel blue and numb all over. harry’s lip trembles. “haz, look at me.”

harry glances up, eyes shiny and shaking, bony wrists clicking together.

“you’re gonna be fine, okay?” louis whispers. he kisses harry’s forehead, brushes his hair back. “everything is gonna be fine.”

“they said it won’t get better, lou,” harry says. “they said-“

“harry,” louis hushes him with a kiss, shaking his head as he pulls away. he feels too fierce for how quiet harry is being, but the panic that’s settled like sludge in his chest is too much to let settle. “listen to me. i would never let anything happen to you.”

harry starts to cry, tiny sobs that he tries to trap by scrunching up his face. louis pulls him in, hugs him close despite the heat and hushes him, just kisses his hair over and over again and lets him cry and heave and curl his fingers into louis’ shirt until the material stretches.

“i’m so scared,” harry whispers miserably, knuckles brushing louis’ stomach, sticky-wet lashes leaving tiny drops on his neck. then, with a hacking, broken sob, harry says, “i want to be nine. i want to be a boy again. i don’t want to die.”

“harry,” louis says, face crumpling when his own tears start. he can’t even say _it’s going to be okay_ or _you’ll be fin_ e because that feels like a lie and it feels twisted and wrong and bitter. the fact that he can’t say it makes his eyes go fuzzy too fast.

he tries to think of simpler things, of harry in grocery store light at two a.m, of those early summers they had when everything was plastic and bright and it didn’t matter if things broke easily, of flowers and harry’s eyes the same colour as meadow grass, of warm hearts and warm fingers and warm lips, first kisses and wet kisses and deep kisses, of clear coloured skies, of heat in summer, of chill in winter, autumn leaves and spring abundance, of something other than the blurry haze of a boiling, breaking planet.

“i love you,” harry whispers. “i love you so much. i dont want us to die.”

today is a gaping nothingness compared to the fullness of yesterdays.

louis wants to say _it’s okay_ but nothing comes, so he just whispers _i love you_ back and lets his chest cave in.

-

sixteen is a solar flare that wipes out three quarters of the southern hemisphere and sends the northern hemisphere into a breathless flurry of fire and nuclear danger and dust. sixteen is losing power intermittently and darkness that lasts only four hours at a time, fire sirens howling in wobbly echoes at a near constant, sweat fogging windows and eyes and making everything slick.

sixteen is lying on their backs on top of the sheets with their fingers held slippery together, staring at the ceiling and breathing so long and slow and deep that their chests ache with it. sixteen is crying and kissing and touching in new, intimate ways because things feel hopeless but they still have this, still have each other, and things have become so dark but harry has always shone so, so bright.

sixteen is louis watching harry watch the deadly sun and realising he’d give his life a hundred times over for harry to keep his.

-

the sky is clouded with smoke and the world is dangerously frantic.

there are bodies crushing them from everywhere, men and women pushing their children forward, pushing each other together until there’s no room to breathe, no room to move, and everything smells like dust and fire and it’s too hot to keep their eyes open.

today they’re seventeen and louis doesn’t know if they’ll ever be eighteen. there are officers swarming in and trying to keep people calm, reaching in to the crowd and picking out children, trying to hold the mass of bodies back as everyone scrambles towards the loading dock, to the boats bobbing on too-hot, rising water, the boats that are taking them to bigger ships, to ships that have become constant sunspots in the impossibly huge sky.

harry is in front of him, tall and lanky because he’s shot up and grown into those gangly limbs, and louis loves him so fiercely that even here he can feel tears beading his eyes, overwhelmed with the noise and the pressure on his skin and the heat and the need for harry to be okay, for him to be safe and okay and away from the burning sky.

he’s got his hands on harry’s hips and his forehead against his shoulder and he’s saying _it’s alright, breathe, it’s alright_ over and over because harry’s breathing is wheezy and his chest is shaking and there’s absolutely no room to move. the loading dock is full of people already and there’s nowhere to go but away from here but louis knows they won’t get through. the thought rises a panic so palpable he almost chokes on it, because this is the fifth time they haven’t made it.

there’s a swell of pushing and he and harry a squished right up to the front of the mass, harry’s hands splayed on the plastic shields of the officers, trying to swallow hiccupping breaths. there’s the nauseating sound of metal creaking, and louis lets out a broken cry when the gates start to close, officers pulling in the thick metal from either side while they’re forced backwards, the angry, hot cries turning into panic and pleas, children crying for their parents on the other side.

louis has inhaled nothing but smoke and dust and harry for the last year and the weight of it has him shaking, has an unbearable dread coursing through his bones at the thought of them never escaping here. there’s not enough room for them. there is logically not enough room for them all up there and he knows this but the gates are closing and this can’t be it. this can’t be it.

everything sort of happens slowly but all at once, when he pushes harry through the crowd of officers.

it doesn’t feel like he’s in control of his body when his palms find harry’s shoulder blades, and it doesn’t feel like he’s in control of his body when the officers part to let the gates be shut, and he shoves harry with a strength he feels physically ill at, jolting him through the tiny gap so thoroughly that he lets out a hiccuped yelp and tumbles forward onto his knees, scraping them on the concrete.

there’s this frozen moment, afterwards, where the cries and the shouts are gone, and it’s just silent. the gates shut, and the click of the lock echoes like a piercing scream.

harry is up and clawing through the bars immediately.

“ _louis!_ lou, _don’t,_ ” he’s sobbing, reaching for him, chest absolutely heaving, and louis reaches through the bars and cups his cheeks roughly.

“i’m so sorry,” he rasps. “i’m so sorry. i’m so-“

“ _louis,_ ” harry wails, _wails_ for him, shaking the gate, pushing his shoulders against it with all his weight to try and break through. his eyes are wild and flashing with fear and louis feels both absolutely consumed with guilt and flooded with a sickening, awful relief.

“you’re okay, sweetheart,” louis presses their noses together, metal chilled and rusted on his cheeks. harry grips his wrists so tightly it hurts. “you’re alright. you’ll be safe, okay? you’re going to be okay, harry.”

“it’s not okay,” harry cries. “it’s not _okay._ ”

“it is, love,” louis says. he’s trying to be reassuring but his heart feels like it’s about to collapse on itself. “you’re going to-. you’re going to go up there while they figure this out and when you come back you can bring me back some moon dust, yeah? remember that?”

“you have to come with me! you have to-,” harry’s face is crumpled and broken, and he’s tugging and thrashing at the gates. “lou, _please._ i don’t want to go. i don’t want to go. i can’t go without you. you _promised_.”

louis’ ribs are creaking, the crowd behind him pressing him into the gate as they try and slip through, as they too try and reach for loved ones on the other side. the officers are starting to pull people away and harry’s breathing is erratic and shaky and he’s gripping louis so hard his nails are leaving crescent indents.

“i love you,” louis says, and harry shakes his head, choking on a sob. “i love you so, so much, harry.”

“ _lou_ ,” harry cries, and then there are gloved hands on his shoulders, tugging him away. “ _no! stop!_ get the _fuck_ — louis!”

he’s thrashing against them and scrambling to get away, scratching at their thick uniforms, eyes shaking with desperation and terror and louis is crumbling, crying, his fingers curling against the metal bars as harry is dragged away kicking.

he’s both entirely empty and entirely full, and his body sags against the gate slowly until he’s curled up in a ball, crushed by the weight of the bodies pressing to take his place. he can still hear harry crying, and then the doors are closed and the boats hum and there’s just nothing.

there’s nothing.

-

the trees around the park are stripped and burnt bare, and the mulch is grey and dead.

louis approaches the swing set with careful feet, eyes half closed because it hurts to keep them open when things are so blinding and he really, really, shouldn’t be out in the light.

there are no birds and no cars and no bugs and he isn’t sure if it’s summer or winter or autumn or spring. he lowers his creaking, melting bones to the dry ground slowly, lies down on his back even slower and shuffles under the black seat, the plastic melted and oddly shaped.

the paint is gone but when louis closes his eyes he can smell the heady plastic of cheap acrylic, and when his fingers brush the swing, when he starts to push it back and forth and the creaks of the old chain sound like the only thing that exists, the sunlight that brushes his cheeks feels gentle and giving and something from a dream.

he opens his eyes and the sky is magenta and his eyes are watery and golden glazed, and it’s clear but through his misty vision he imagines he can still see the sunspots, the little contrails of shiny ships escaping.

with gentle fingers he brings the swing to a stop, and when he allows himself a broken, tiny smile, his tears pool and drip along his temples, and things are quiet and still and somewhere painfully far away, harry is safe and waiting.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> u can come say hi to me on tumblr @ fondleeds if u want!! i also made a little post for this fic if u wanna check that out [here](http://fondleeds.tumblr.com/post/166007358595)
> 
> thanks for always being so kind to me
> 
> ♡♡♡


End file.
